


Night Shift

by loveinamaltshop



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Barebacking, But Not Quite Friends, Friends With Benefits, Hiatus fic, M/M, No one's in love sorry, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:52:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinamaltshop/pseuds/loveinamaltshop
Summary: Patrick almost feels sorry for him, if he wasn’t trying to do the same thing — pulling away just enough to pull Pete along with him. Some habits were harder to quit. They never seemed to find a rhythm within all of this, but they had always silently agreed it was better than nothing.Pete flies out to see Patrick.A glimpse into convenience and hypotheticals.





	Night Shift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Catherines_Collections](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherines_Collections/gifts).



> Happiest of birthday to my love, [Rhymes](https://rhymesofblau.tumblr.com)! Here's a little something that isn't as happy as I would wish your day would be, but I doubt we'd want it any other way ;) Enjoy!

He wonders if that’s why Pete needs to find him in every city he plays in — he’s the only one who’s ever gotten close enough to see cracks and to have had stayed, to fill those spaces even. He knows Pete can see his, too, gaping and crude where he’s forced himself open, where he’s constantly felt the need to give enough to get. Pete never needed to get, he would split parts of him open, just because. 

It’s New York, the streets busy and the looks fleeting. Nothing lasts in New York City, he knows this much. He finished a show and walks back to his hotel, Pete the only unmoving thing in the middle of the lobby. His eyes are rimmed dark, lack of sleep, new prescription, last minute flight. It was a look that never really went away. 

Pete looked older, so much older than Patrick would ever have been comfortable seeing. His jaw was littered with uneven stubble. He looked fucking terrible. Patrick continued to walk towards him.

Patrick didn’t ask Pete to be here. He doesn’t need much of Pete anymore. Pete doesn’t need him, but here they were, three-star hotel no paparazzo would even think of flocking. His band’s staying somewhere across the street, and they’ve all gone for drinks. Patrick had declined, and they shrugged, smiled and headed off. 

But Pete is  _ here  _ and there isn’t much else he could do. He greets him with a cordial nod but Pete pulls him into a hug, Patrick crashing into the space of the couch right beside him. 

“I won’t stay,” Pete insists. “I just need this.”

In any other universe, Patrick would almost be flattered Pete had gone all this way. But he knows Pete and he knows his reasons. Pete Wentz is grasping at straws. He stands up, pulling away from Pete’s grasp. They have time. They’ll have tonight.

“How’s the divorce?” he asks, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound as cutting. He didn’t mean to bite. Pete gives him a smile, almost easily. 

“Swell, Trick, just swell,” Pete laughs bitterly, eyeing Patrick’s face. He almost sounds like himself. 

Pete Wentz, professional rock star turned train wreck in the matter of years. No one was surprised. 

Patrick shifts his weight between his feet before he starts walking. Pete follows, as he does, as he always will.

“I liked her,” Patrick lies when they’re in the elevator. He presses the button to his floor, the one right under the penthouse. Pete stares at the security camera.

“Me too,” Pete says. All he has with him is an expensive looking leather jacket, no coat or bag. 

The ride is quiet but in the times before when they’ve done this Pete had a hand in his hair and another in his pants. He’d be searching for friction like he was trying to cast a fire, but right now he can’t even look at Patrick. Patrick almost feels sorry for him, if he wasn’t trying to do the same thing — pulling away just enough to pull Pete along with him. Some habits were harder to quit. They never seemed to find a rhythm within all of this, but they had always silently agreed it was better than nothing.

Patrick taps the keycard against the door and lets himself and Pete in. Pete hangs his jacket over a hook, revealing well-worn Doors shirt that’s too familiar to Patrick.

“That’s mine, isn’t it?” he’s saying softly, fingers undoing his necktie. Pete swallows and nods as he toes off his shoes and socks. 

“Do you want it back?” Pete asks, belt coming undone as well. Patrick shakes his head, his first genuine laugh today bubbling out of his throat as he does. Pete gives him a funny look. 

“What else would you wear?” Patrick counters, fingers deftly undoing his cuffs. 

_ Something of yours,  _ he can practically hear Pete insinuate with his teasing smirk. Proof that he was here at Patrick’s, at New York, fucked him and slept in his bed. Basic itinerary. Proof that he kindled a fire, kept them both warm for a night. A smoke signal. 

Patrick looks down at his own hands undoing the buttons on his shirt. The lights in the hotel room flatter him, shadowing bones and muscle he’s sure Pete hasn’t seen. He tugs it off his arms. Pete isn’t looking where he wants him to look, once they’re both shirtless. Hands curve over his neck and Pete’s kissing him. It’s languid and a little anticlimactic, but Patrick moves his own mouth along with him. He tastes like street coffee. He wonders if Pete’s eaten or if he honest to god just took the first plane from LA to New York without considering his basest functions. His stomach lurches. 

Patrick’s knees hit the bed, both their bodies bouncing under their weight. His tongue presses into Pete’s mouth, more questioning than the rushed, insistent heat he craves. Pete sucks on his tongue, and he moans in the quiet of his room. Their room. 

“Have you been taking care of yourself?” Patrick asks, hips surging upwards. 

Pete counts ribs with his fingertips, thumbs pulling at the swollen buds of his nipples. “Have you?”

“Does it matter?” Patrick asks, biting down on his own lip. He tries to shake Pete’s hands off slightly.

“You asked first,” Pete murmurs. His words don’t kick and it leaves Patrick more disturbed than anything. He looks up, darkened eyes that match his own greet each other. Pete manages to tell him it’s a mutually stupid question with just the speed of his eyelids. 

Patrick huffs and turns them over. It’s been a while since he’s been with anyone. Touring keeps him busy. So does recording. So does avoiding calls, the internet, not leaving his bed. 

He dips his head low, drops his voice in the way he knows Pete likes, and tells him he’s going to ride him. 

He gets the reaction he wants, Pete’s eyes widening and the grinding up of his hips against Patrick’s own. He’s never ridden Pete. Never wanted to. Not until now, desperately smashing two stones against each other, coarse enough to cut his palms, needing light, warmth, smoke scented hair,  _ something.  _

“Fuck,” Pete whispers, hands bunching over the fabric on Patrick’s ass. “Yeah, fuck.”

Patrick smiles down at him when he pulls away. His breath stutters as he settles on Pete’s thighs, and he opens Pete’s jeans. His hand moves over the length of it, twitching to hardness. Patrick’s eyes can’t leave Pete, they never do. He relishes in every hitch of his breath, every broken whisper of his name. 

“I’ve thought about this,” Pete says, instead of  _ us  _ or  _ you.  _ Patrick isn’t picky. They were wild over each other once. That’s what matters. Pete shoves at Patrick’s pants. 

“Yeah?” Patrick breathes, letting his briefs come off too before he presses his naked form over Pete’s. It was hard to feel vulnerable the second someone’s seen the worst of you and more. So he looks at Pete once, reaches over the toiletries bag perched on his nightstand, and pulls out lube. He pops open the bottle and drizzles his fingers with them, before he reaches back. 

He’s on both knees and one hand, and Pete notices the awkward stance before his hand wraps around the back of his neck and kisses him, a little gentler than Patrick hoped but it steadies him. “Tell me how you feel,” Pete murmurs, sliding his mouth over Patrick’s bottom lip, nipping once, twice. 

Patrick takes a deep breath and exhales against Pete’s neck before he lets his middle finger slip inside himself. The sting subsides as he arches his back, dark eyes falling onto Pete’s. 

“Patrick,” Pete says, this side of commanding that makes Patrick’s cock twitch. 

“What do you think?” Patrick almost snaps but he lets himself slip another finger inside, and it comes out shaky when he starts pumping his fingers in and out of himself. His lips smash against Pete’s again, tongue moving restlessly into his mouth as he spoke. “I’ve been so tight, Pete, fuck.”

“Been a while, huh?” Pete grins wolfishly and Patrick has to tuck his face into his neck. “Put a third in.”

Patrick sucks in a breath, does so, as his mouth glides over inked thorns. Runs a tongue over it, and he’s granted the taste of sweat and bitter cologne, the sound of Pete humming right against his ear. Pete reaches down to stroke Patrick’s dick slowly, gripping and pressing his thumb over the thick vein, the wrinkle of skin under the head, finding every spot with blind ease. Patrick remembers to suck a dark hickey right under his jaw. 

“Keep fucking yourself,” Pete says. Patrick does, nodding as Pete’s petting his hips, grabbing the flesh of his ass. “Fuck, Patrick. You look just as good as I remember.”

Patrick stares at him, moaning low in his throat as he adjusts to the full feeling of his fingers. He levels his breathing, slick forehead sliding across Pete’s shoulder, biting at it as he feels Pete pepper kisses over his own. It’s an unusually gentle gesture. 

“Missed you, Trick,” Pete says in lieu of silence. 

Patrick hums. He doubts it but slicks up his hand, pulls Pete out of his underwear, jacks him off slowly as he pulls back to look at Pete. Pete’s breathing ragged, darkened eyes that probably match his own. He’s fervent and alive like he’s been pulled out of water and Patrick’s been breathing air into him this whole time. It’s fucked up that Patrick feels the same about him, clamoring for surface.

He lowers himself over Pete, pinning his chest down. It feels too different, but it’s Pete, inside him, digging his nails in is skin, and Patrick lets himself get lost in the sensation of being more full than he’s ever been. 

Pete tells him to move, and he does. Pete isn’t looking away from him, and Patrick isn’t either. The fingers in his skin are bruising deep, and they still don’t feel like enough. 

There’s a question in Pete’s eye that Patrick doesn’t want to entertain. Not now, he thinks, when it’s confusing enough. When every time he did, the spaces only widened, their bodies breaking off more of each other. He has questions of his own but there’s only so much of himself anymore. 

When they come, it’s more efficient than satisfying. More crackle than fire. They kiss like it was. 

Patrick washes up to find Pete curled up in his sheets. He’s curled up on Patrick’s side of the bed, overbleached sheets tight around himself. Patrick can see his haphazardly rumpled jeans on the ground.

“You mind?” Pete asks.

“Do I have a choice?” Patrick goes for teasing but it comes out tired instead. There’s an echo of  _ I won’t stay  _ that sounds like years ago. Pete still smiles. 

“I don’t think we’ve ever given each other one,” Pete mutters as Patrick tugs on sleeping pants and Pete’s shirt, his shirt. He resists every urge to pull up the collar and smell. It’s not one of those things. 

“Not true,” Patrick whispers as he lays his back flat on the bed, arms crossed over his chest. Pete covers him with the comforter. He moves closer, but never touching Patrick. 

Pete’s turned to his side and looking at him, with one arm tucked behind his head. He’s chewing at his mouth restlessly.

Patrick nods, braces himself. 

“Do you think we could’ve loved each other?” A pause. “That would have made sense, right?”

Neither of them have turned the lights off just yet. There’s too much to see. It’s open ground.

After a while, Patrick nods stiffly. “I wouldn’t have let you.”

“I wouldn’t have let you either.” Pete turns to the ceiling but looks at Patrick from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t sound as petulant as the words would seem, but it’s the most honest they’ve been since they saw each other. 

Patrick turns over, counts the colors on the gaudy painting across him. Exhaustion is washing over him in waves when he feels Pete turn and curl further away from him. 

“Does it scare you this is all we have?” is Pete’s murmured question. 

Patrick stays silent, the number twelve curling around his lips when he falls asleep. He doesn’t get to ask what he means by it. Why he’s asking in the first place. 

Pete turns off the light for them.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, kudos and comments bring me joy <3 My tumblr is at @[loveinamaltshop](http://loveinamaltshop.tumblr.com)!


End file.
